


life throws a wrench and i throw daggers

by thatsnotweirdright



Category: Brawlhalla (Video Game)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sad boi times, Some Humor, Some Plot, a tiny bit of - Freeform, battles, caspian and jiro are trouble, inconsistent updates, jiro had a rough time, kaya is a sweetheart, lucien just wants to sleep, pretty much all of the legends get at least a mention, so its probably terrible, sorry - Freeform, this started out as a joke and ended up with a plot, trickster trio (aka kaya caspian and jiro)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsnotweirdright/pseuds/thatsnotweirdright
Summary: It definitely hurts but it's not so bad, Jiro thinks. Dying, that is.
Relationships: Jiro (Brawlhalla) & Shadows
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	life throws a wrench and i throw daggers

**Author's Note:**

> why is it that all of the wips i have with any sort of progress on them are video game fanfictions? anyway, i got tired of the lack of content and said fuck it so here you, my lucky reader, go. enjoy i guess

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

It definitely hurt before but it's not so bad, Jiro thinks. Dying, that is. He is slipping far too fast to really fear the gaping maw of nothingness that yawns before him and he's only just lucid enough to register a small twinge of pain that lances through his throat. Maybe for others—when death is neither silent nor quick, when the world around them is simultaneously too much and not enough, when they have the time to think and to feel—it could be restless and loud and terrifying. For Jiro, though, it is peaceful and calm, the complete opposite of how he had lived his life. He can't find it within himself to hate it. He doesn't think he possesses the strength to. But that's fine. What good would either strength or hate do him now? 

"-sama! Jiro-sama!" 

Jiro tilts his head to the side, following the dim and faded voice. It sounds familiar, but he can't quite place it...

"Jiro-sama, stay awake. Stay with us!" 

Ah. Only Eiko would babble like that. As he talks, he allows his voice to coax him away from the void. Its pull doesn't diminish completely, but Jiro somehow finds it within himself to resist for a while longer. Little by little, the world begins to filter through again and he inhales deeply. He blinks as Eiko's figure clears and he can see his scrunched eyebrows, pinched mouth, and bright eyes.

"You will be just fine, just hold out until the healer Keiji arrives," he is saying, fluttering about around his body. Checking over his many, many wounds and trying to decide which one needs immediate attention, no doubt. He has half a mind to tell him not to bother, but he'd probably ignore him anyway.

Jiro feels a languid smile curl his lips, but distantly, as if he's still not entirely present. It should probably concern him more. It doesn't. He blinks, wondering if it will dispel the black haze creeping back across his conscious. It doesn't. His eyes stay shut. He's tired. Can he sleep now?

"No! Jiro-sama!"

How rude. The shinobi pries his eyes open, fixing the blurry outline of his panicking kage in the center of his vision. "Eiko," he says, slightly exasperated. "We both know I'm not going to last long enough for Keiji-san."

His voice comes out raspy and choked and he feels rather than sees Eiko flinch. His senses sharpen for a fleeting moment. The remaining army must still be looking for him to make sure he's dead. Ignoring the pressure that builds behind his eyes, Jiro collects the tattered remains of his magic and erects a shaky concealment shield. At least for now, he won't be disturbed. He sighs and slumps against Eiko's thighs, blinking to clear away his headache. There's the taste of iron on his tongue and a wet sucking and gurgling sensation that comes from the general area of his throat. His entire body aches and a very specific emptiness is coming from his left hand. General Akusuma really did a number on him, he notes dryly even as he sinks back into his numbed state. Still, judging by the amount of movement—which is none—coming from Akusuma's body, Jiro will say that he won. He chuckles sarcastically to himself. Who knew victory could taste exactly like one particular shade of red?

"Don't talk like that," Eiko mumbles. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be just fine. As soon as Healer Keiji or maybe Fujiki..."

Jiro allows himself a slight grin. It's starting to make sense now, isn't it, he thinks as Eiko slowly meets his eyes. He sees a hazy sort of understanding lining his face and his grin widens just a bit. Yes, definitely making sense.

"Master," Eiko says, carefully choosing his words. "Why am I the only kage summoned?"

Jiro hums and shrugs the shoulder that will move. "Isn't it obvious?" 

Eiko's face scrunches with confusion and Jiro takes pity on him. He lifts his left hand between them and shakes and twitches with the effort. Eiko must see the strain because he catches his hand and supports it with poorly concealed surprise. 

"Master, why...!"

The shadow cuts off with a gasp, his hand slipping from his grasp. Jiro winces as it thuds to the ground. He tucks it to his chest and cradles the arm protectively with a pointed glare in Eiko's direction. "Ow," is all he says. 

The kage is not paying attention, though. "Jiro-sama, your hand! It's..."

Jiro snorts ungracefully. "Destroyed, busted, distorted, ugly?" he supplies. 

Eiko sticks out his bottom lip and narrows his eyes. "I was going to say broken."

"Right. Well, in any case, that's exactly what it is. Not much to do about it, really." Come on. The answer is literally staring you in the face right now.

Eiko's eyes widen. "You can't summon any healer kage." 

Jiro mouth quirks. "Bingo." Well, there's more, but unless he specifically asks, I don't think I need to—

"Wait, then how come it's only me and not also the warrior class kage you can still summon with your right hand?" 

Eiko levels Jiro with a look. He offers a sheepish grin and shivers despite the bright sun shining overhead, refusing to wonder exactly why he feels so cold. He knows why. There's no need to wonder. 

"I could try to summon them," he acknowledges. "But assuming I don't unnecessarily worsen my wounds with the strain it would put on me, what are the chances that it would do anything worth the risk? Would it really be worth it?"

Eiko opens his mouth to object, but Jiro cuts him off. "No. Besides, as my original kage, the strain on me to summon you was significantly less than for any other kage."

Jiro coughs, dislodging the blood pooling in the back of his throat. It splatters across his chin and chest. If Jiro were a more poetic type, he'd even go as far as describe it as fitting. He spent his entire life spilling blood, and here he is ending it the same way. Actually, that's pretty good. Someone write that down. 

Eiko hovers over him, hands held out in front like he's not quite sure what to do with them. That is probably true. While Jiro knows Eiko has at least a basic understanding of field medicine in theory, that's all that it is. By the time Jiro actually struck out on his own, to where his injuries couldn't be healed by the family healer, nor were they small enough to require only a simple bandage wrap, he already had a kage with some specific and in depth healing knowledge within his command. 

Eiko rests his hands on the parts of Jiro's stomach that aren't riddled with holes, jolting him from his thoughts. He smiles, placing his good hand over them. The shinobi can tell his shadow is fighting back tears, always has been able to, and he pats the hands underneath his. 

The void calls for him again and it is much harder to resist this time. He's not sure he wants to, either. In all honesty, Jiro is tired. Pain flares in his throat and he struggles to breathe properly. It wouldn't be bad to let go here. His most recent contract is already complete and he hasn't had the time to accept another. He's tired of that, too. Money is money, but he's tired of the senseless murders so many clients ask of him. Few jobs offer him a sense of moral righteousness anymore. Although maybe he lost the rights to his morality years ago. He wouldn't be surprised if he has. 

"Jiro-sama." 

The shinobi opens his eyes—when had he closed them?—and hums. Eiko's expression is pained, most likely experiencing the effects of his master's deteriorating health in full now. Jiro can feel the kage within his actual shadow thrashing, fighting to be let out, but Jiro lacks the strength to break them past the thin yet strong magic barrier that separates them from the outside world. Eiko watches his shadow, wincing. Jiro reaches out with the link to his kage. It meets a dead end. His soul is no longer earthbound enough to connect to them like he used to. He expected as much, but it still shatters something inside him. 

"Tell them," Jiro croaks out and then pauses. "Tell them I'm sorry. I can't... I can't reach them anymore."

Eiko nods and retrieves one of his hands to dip into his shadow. He doesn't remove his hand—Jiro suspects he can't anyway—even as the shadow stills. Jiro expects Eiko to slip into his shadow, to be with the rest of their family for the last time, but he doesn't. He is surprised, but another, more selfish part of him is happy. He hates himself for it. 

"They know," Eiko says, sounding choked. "They understand."

He refuses to meet Jiro's eyes so the shinobi closes them and almost smiles. Instead, he inhales as deeply and smoothly as he can and allows his body to relax completely with the exhale. "Then that's all that I can ask."

Jiro's eyes fly open when he feels a slight pressure over him. He catches the shadowy and wispy edges of Eiko's body that's draped over his, face buried in his chest, from his limited span of vision. Cautiously, as if soothing a wild animal, Jiro reaches up a hand and places it on his back. He almost retracts, startled, when Eiko twitches. He's grateful he doesn't. 

"I'm sorry!" Eiko hiccups, voice muffled. "We're sorry, Jiro-sama!" For not protecting you better, for letting that bastard get close to you, for all of it. 

The words aren't spoken out loud, but Jiro hears them all the same. He can't quite manage a smile, there's no strength left to, but he can slide the hand not currently on Eiko's back to the ground where a slip of his shadow is visible. The force of the kage pressing against the barrier is tangible and Jiro can feel the shadow's edge distend slightly into his hand. Something within his heart settles, like an itch scratched or a rock removed from a shoe. His fingers curl into the shadow, hoping they can feel it. He wants them to know and that its reciprocated. 

"—did more. I wish I could do more," Eiko mumbles into his chest. 

Jiro hums. "Eiko." 

The kage peeks an eye out. Jiro forces his lips to curl into a smile. He doesn't know if he manages more than a grimace, but it also doesn't really matter. His words will do the rest. "You are already doing enough." 

"How?" And Eiko's voice sounds so pained, so remorseful. Jiro can't help the twitch of his fingers, and he doesn't try to. Instead, he digs them into Eiko's back, a constant, reminding pressure. 

"Well," he says, meeting Eiko's eye unwaveringly. "I'm not dying alone, am I?" 

There's a pause before Eiko huffs out a breath. "No. I suppose not."

Jiro nods, letting his head fall. He stares at the midday sun for as long as he dares before the void's calls are too much and his eyes slip shut. The black it offers is cool and almost welcoming. Jiro greets it. "If you have some time left here after I'm gone, make sure those bastards don't do anything weird to my body."

Eiko chokes on a sob, but Jiro imagines he's smiling. "I will."

"Thanks, Eiko. I owe you one."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.


End file.
